


Counterbalance

by harcourt



Series: Stark Business Empire [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Conditioning, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Training, darkish world, mentions of torture, non-con elements, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1164046">energy, force, motion</a>.</i>
</p><p>Tony brings problems home the way kids bring home stray dogs. And, like kids, he leaves the messes for someone else to deal with.</p><p>Or, Tony acquires Clint. What <i>for</i> is apparently Phil's problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterbalance

**Author's Note:**

> Like the previous part, I haven't tagged rape/non-con because no sex happens in this fic. However, there are still non-con elements that could be problematic and I've tagged as accurately as I can.
> 
> Please alert me if I need to make changes.

Steve's a publicity golden boy, all army trained glory and badges of honor, and _of course_ Tony would buy him. It makes sense to everybody. It makes sense for Stark Industries and Tony's public image, and it makes a great talking point when he promotes Steve to a position as trusted as his personal security, even if Happy isn't exactly _happy_ about being saddled with a partner who outshines him quite so definitively.

Clint, on the other hand, has a total of about three uses, and two of those involve projectile weapons, which are strictly off-limits with his criminal record--covering everything from theft to assassination.

"He also does great cartwheels," Tony points out, pouring Bruce tea because he's Tony Stark and when he does niceties at all, he has to do them backwards. He notices the tick in Phil's brow and gestures with the pot, making little circles to indicate Bruce and an area around him filled with nothing of any importance that Phil can decipher. "I need him here. I have bio mechanic applications I need some more bio on, if you know what I mean."

Phil doesn't answer. It's not like Tony needs to justify himself to anyone, really, but he sits there pointing the tea spout at Bruce until Phil sighs and says, "Fine."

"Great." Tony grins, puts down the pot and starts fiddling with his Starkpad. It's a little bit manic, even for Tony, this early in the day. "Off a pony," Tony goes on. "The cartwheels I mean. Or maybe that's backflips." He stops to frown. Gestures. "Anyway. I had it on good authority that he has other great qualities."

That's not a thing anyone says about recaptures unless it's polite hinting, or a tongue-in-cheek euphemism, but Tony says it with a straight face and no tone change. Like he thinks that actually refers to Clint's acrobatics. Like a slave training house, that Clint was originally from, specializing in providing entertainment for the ultra wealthy would draw a moral line at teaching a looker like Clint to somersault though flaming hula hoops. And like anyone would think a recapture was worth the risk of rehabbing, so long as he had the entertainment value of a hound balancing a ball on its nose.

"Golden retriever," Phil suggests, "If you need something for company. For _more_ company. I hear they're great."

"I have company,' Tony says," I don't need _more_ company." He's getting annoyed. For all that Tony's behavior begs for intervention, he doesn't like to be _actually_ questioned. Across the table, Bruce quietly spreads jam on an English muffin, very wisely enjoying his breakfast at Tony's overstocked table without appearing to take notice of either of them or their argument. 

Tony shoves fruit at him. Tells Phil, "Maybe _you_ need company. Maybe you were getting bored. Maybe you need a challenge."

"Why would I need a challenge when I have you?" 

"Aw. I'm touched. You're the world to me too, Coulson." Tony taps his computer screen with an index finger, like a sulky, cranky child, then whacks his open palm on the table next to it. "I don't know, okay? Find something for him to do. You found something for _Steve_."

"Steve's different. You know Steve is different." Phil pauses to heave a breath, to get the snap out of his voice before continuing. "Tony, half the world thinks you're a lunatic building personal weaponized suits." And getting into drunk social disasters all over the television, but Phil doesn't need to say that. _Hopes_ he doesn't need to say that, because if Tony needs any of it spelled out to him, they're in worse shape here than he'd thought.

"And the other half thinks I'm the world's most eligible bachelor," Tony points out.

"Who is building personal weaponized suits."

"I think my point still stands."

Phil sighs. It doesn’t help that _he_ is a part of the half that thinks--not that Tony is an eligible bachelor, but that Tony is a man building weaponized suits for his own personal use, sure, but who is also a genius and courageous and who has the potential and the resources to be the kind of hero Steve had been. To be a _bigger_ kind of hero, even, than Steve had been. 

He's a part of the half that is a little bit in love with Tony Stark. Or maybe with who Tony could be if he would get his head out of his ass and at least _try_ to fly straight.

"A lot of people would think Clint deserves what he was going to get," Phil says, because people might think rescuing Steve was just and kind and honorable, but there's no way to play Clint's history the same way. Clint's a mercenary and a murderer, at worst, and a deadly tool, at best, and neither of those look good in conjunction with _but -why- is Tony Stark amassing an arsenal?_

"He doesn't," Tony says, flat. Dark-eyed. The banter part of this argument is over. Tony's no longer seeing whatever he's got scrolling down his screen. He's got a kind of distant look as he frowns down at the glass, flicking at the touchscreen like his hand is on auto-pilot. 

"They've already put him through the recapture wringer," Tony says, low, and even though that's what Phil had been saying, he doesn't interrupt. He can almost _feel_ Bruce wanting to make himself scarce. Steve, when he was newer, would have disappeared right around now, too. Tony's a lot easier to dislike when one wasn't privy to his motivations. "I--Have you _seen_ him? He's a pain in the ass. He's a fucking _terror_."

"I've been made aware," Phil deadpans. Tony snorts and looks up, then away again. Then shrugs.

"Well. I'm sure you know what they do to recaptures. I don't want to look too closely at the details, but _make sure they never run again_ kind of leaps out at one."

Phil very carefully doesn't sigh, but he does give Bruce a little nod to indicate beating a hasty retreat is now completely acceptable. 

"I needed him," Tony protests, hollow sounding. It doesn't stop Bruce, who grabs an extra muffin and his tea and a stack of papers and excuses himself as politely as is possible with his hands full of things.

"He needs you," Phil points out, "To keep your head above water." He wouldn't expect _nose clean_. That's way beyond a realistic expectation right now. 

"Nothing about Afghanistan," Tony says, "Nothing they did could have made me not want to get out."

Not wanting to and not _trying_ to are two entirely different things, but it's a nitpick, because Tony's _here_ , and that alone kind of proves his point. 

"I wasn't going to buy him," Tony says, absently pouring tea into his coffee cup before he notices he has the wrong pot, "But then I made the mistake of wondering, what do you have to do to a guy to make him _not want to run_."

"Tony--"

"I don't think feed them caviar and champagne was on the list. That's how I keep _you guys_ from jumping the fence, but it's kind of high budget."

"Tony--"

"And then you have _this_ asshole, who you know would probably still go for it even after all that."

"Given half a chance." Phil agrees. Clint would. He'd be gone and swallowed back into the underworld in a heartbeat, if Phil were to drop his guard for a _second_.

Tony pours his ruined coffee into someone else's abandoned mug--Pepper's, maybe--and refills. From the proper pot this time, then just holds the drink in his hands, swirling it carefully. "What do you think would be worse, Phil." Not _Coulson_ , Phil notices. " _Wanting_ to run--and I can tell you, that pretty much sucks--or when there's not enough left of you to _consider it_ anymore?"

Tony puts his mug back down without having taken a sip and sits glaring at it for a long time with his hands tucked into his armpits. Finally, he says, "I can't think of anything that would have made me not want to run. Only things that would make me want to run _more_." Then he lets his breath out in a puff. Grins shakily up at Phil and shrugs a shoulder. "Well. Clearly they're more imaginative than me. That's possibly a point you could make."

Or just more practiced at it, Phil thinks, but doesn't say. It's not exactly a comforting statement. He goes with, "You're stronger than--"

" _Pff_. No. I'm sniveling and spoiled, but--if they broke him, that would be on me. He made it through whatever the fuck they do with their escapees in one piece, and if I didn't stop it, he'd slip _someone's_ collar, and then it would be pretty much the same as if you were to ship me back to Afghanistan and make me do the whole thing over again. That's what it would be like for him, but worse, because most of these guys give up the _first time_."

"Jesus, Tony."

Tony glares into his coffee. Says, "I need a scotch."

"It's nine in the morning."

He gets a grunt in response, and then Tony takes a long, noisy slurp of coffee and just like that, the conversation is over. Phil takes a breath. Pulls _sympathetic_ and _friends_ back in and folds it away for the next time Tony might be open to it, then smoothes his expression. Says, "Fine. He's ours. He's our problem. What do you want me to _do_ with him?"

Tony waves his mug, indicating Phil, the tower, everything, maybe. "Make him not want to run," he says.

\-----

It's not really the question Phil had been asking, and he's sure Tony means something like _make everything super nice, Stark style_ , but that's not exactly realistic. Clint's not his damn house guest just like Bruce isn't his grad student to be fed coffee and debated with. Keeping Clint hanging around for no reason just isn't an option. Maybe if Clint _was_ like Bruce, with an academic background and of plausible use there'd be no questions, but all Clint has going for him is the tidy mark of a training house on the back of one shoulder--just a small, crisp logo. Dark stripes set on angles to indicate a graphic big top tent, complete with little triangle flag at its top. Clearly visible, but unobtrusive. It makes it very obvious that Clint was meant to be _entertainment_ merchandise. Phil's not unfamiliar with the type, since working for Tony, and generally those trained to be pretty and do tricks are also taught to be yielding and obedient and polite. Clint's flinty edges and easily sparked temper are at rough odds with the mark on his skin, and will hardly make him come across as an appropriately behaved pet.

More likely, it'll make him come across as a poorly trained future problem.

"Keep being good," Phil tells him in the training room, "and you'll be fine." For now all he needs is for Clint to keep following the letter of the law. His attitude can be adjusted later, if it comes to that. If he doesn't fall into line on his own. Clint looks suspicious as hell, wary of being tested and not taking the promise as reassurance, but this is a test Phil's setting up to prove _himself_ to Clint, and knows how to pass. 

He's pretty sure Clint doesn't knows that's what's going on. From what papers Tony had received upon reckless purchase, Clint had gone into training young enough to grow into his role, without ever needing to be broken in. It's possible that his only experience of that was after being picked up, post years long escape, and it's unlikely for that to have done much to convince Clint to accept another's hand on him. At least not willingly, even if he must have tolerated it with something that looked like acceptance, to get put back up for sale.

Or maybe he was just intended for the labor market or, worse, for the kind of sale where unwillingness was the selling point. That, and the black mark of being a flight risk with a criminal record to ensure that no one would care where he ended up, so long as it wasn't free and back on the street.

That might be what Clint's thinking too, because he licks his lips a little nervously, taking in the training room and trying to be inconspicuous about it. His head is down, but it's more to disguise the way he's glancing restlessly from one piece of equipment to another, quick and unsettled. His attention sticks on a wooden table, a padded bench, the carved cupboard up against a wall, then flicks to note any escape routes. 

There aren't any. The floor is one of the lower of Tony's private floors, but it's still far above street level, and the window in the training room's small sitting area is unbreakable besides. The door they've come through leads back to the sleeping hall, and the other--out to a spare room, used for anything from housing guests' slaves to a place for solitary naps or as a sickroom--is closed and locked.

Clint's breath evens out. Relaxing a little as he processes the lack of options. Either resigned, or saving his energy. Maybe both. His eyes go back to the cupboard and this time stay fixed on it. It's decorative and painted and antique, and it probably looks out of place to him, something fine and beautiful in a training room, but Phil had liked it and there's no reason to store his equipment like anything other than valued tools, and no reason to intimidate anyone by making the room horrible and his implements threatening. If Phil needed to do that, he'd be better off giving up the job. Maybe concentrate on wrangling Tony--if he still had that access post-resignation--and on collecting his fucked-up leg early retirement check. Maybe learn the guitar the way he'd always accused Nick and his blasted SHIELD of keeping him from doing.

"We'll go through it," Phil promises, "and show you what's in there, but not today."

He can see Clint relax at that, just a fraction more. His gaze is still skittering away from anything that has restraints or a space to fasten them to, eyes darting like he thinks the furniture might try to take him by surprise, but the promise of the cupboard staying closed--Phil's a little surprised that he believes it so readily--is calming him enough that he can start to listen, even if he's still just filtering for threats.

"You can come in here any time," Phil tells him, and Clint gives him a disbelieving look, like he thinks Phil's out of his mind. Phil ignores the reaction and nods across the room, indicating the weight machine and heavy bag that are mostly for Steve's use, though Bruce might make the occasional attempt to work out his frustrations on them. "Unless I have one of the others in here. Then you ask."

He gets a quick nod at that. Clint doesn't expect he'll ever have that problem, most likely, and Phil can't blame him, but at least he's responding now. Less threatened by the ambiance of a room that also contains bright yoga mats and a sit-up bench, and Phil hasn't even shown him Steve's record collection yet. "Last time you were in one of these--?" he asks.

It takes Clint a couple of seconds to realize that's the question. Dangling and incomplete and not an order, and he's probably juggling whether or not answering it is optional, but then he starts to shrug, aborts the movement, and follows it with, "After." His nose wrinkles in distaste. "After they got me."

"And before that?"

"At the circ--the house of _wonders_?" It's sarcastic, but Phil pretends not to notice and nods for him to go on. Clint's gaze flicks over him from head to toe and back, measuring and uneasy. "It was more like a gym. Or on stage. In the ring." The smile he gives is sharp and unpleasant, "Why? Are you going to put up a tightrope?"

"Answer questions, Clint." By which he means, _and otherwise keep quiet_. He knows Clint gets it. Any slave with any training at all would, and Clint shifts uneasily then makes a rebellious huffing noise, just for the sake of it. He's like having a big cat on a leash, or maybe a bear. It feels like Clint's just playing tame, and that's fine as long as he _keeps_ playing.

"We're going to do some work," Phil tells him. "Undress, then get up on the table."

That makes Clint freeze, but it's just a pause before he gives Phil a querulous look, then stalks across the room to come to another halt, considering the options. 

"The padded one. On your stomach."

He licks his lips again. It's obvious that he's nervous. Phil holds his hands up, palms open and facing Clint. "I don't have anything. There's nothing to worry about."

He could hurt Clint with just his bare hands, and Clint has to know it, but he takes a breath, lets it out in a long exhale, then yanks his shirt off and drops his pants before kicking them away. Quick and rough and not letting the moment of vulnerability drag on any longer than it absolutely has to before he hops up, turning as he lowers himself to his chest with all the control of a push-up.

"All the way down," Phil says.

Clint pauses--again--then drops the rest of the way and asks, "Where do you want my hands? Sir." The _sir_ is tacked on, but it's there and even in a fairly respectful tone. Or at least not in a snide one and while that's probably just Clint being tactical, considering what he probably thinks is about to happen here, it's an improvement that Phil's willing to reward with leniency. 

"Anywhere you're comfortable, for now."

That leads to awkward, self-conscious shifting as Clint tries to find a position. He'd probably prefer to be restrained. To have any semblance of cooperation removed, but not giving him anything to fight against is a good, if small, start to him _not fighting_. It's manipulative, probably. Not the straight-forward dealing Phil's gotten used to employing with Steve, and even Bruce.

When Clint's been still a while and seems ready, Phil treads a slow circuit around him, considering. Clint's settled for folding his arms under his head, pretending casual indifference, and Phil smiles a little at the token rebellion. The show of bravado. Brushes a hand over Clint's hair, just dragging his fingertips at first, then resting the weight of his whole palm. 

"Easy." It's as much an order as reassurance. Clint's muscles twitch under Phil's hand as he moves his touch from head to neck to shoulders, and down, stopping at the small of Clint's back. Just resting there for a few moments, letting Clint feel the weight of his hand, the push of it against his skin, pressing him down, just a little.

Clint's head slides from the cradle of his arms to hit the padded surface with a muffled noise. Not a thump against the padding, exactly, but Clint lets his breath out at the impact and a second later tucks his face against one folded arm, his hand resting at the back of his neck, fingers closing anxiously on the short strands of his own hair.

Phil's not doing anything to warrant the reaction. Just touching, tracing the muscles of Clint's back and shoulders. Running his hands along Clint's arms, all the way to his fingers, then working his way back. He repeats that a few times, not trying to move or arrange Clint's limbs. Letting him stay as he is, and letting him adjust when he wants, before starting to work his way down Clint's back and towards his hips. Keeping his touch gentle but firm. Not teasing, and careful to telegraph his movements. Making sure not to surprise Clint or put him off his guard. 

It's still not doing much to relax him, and his face stays hidden against his arm until Phil takes it and pulls it straight, then does the same to the other. Laying both out in front of him. Taking away that bit of shelter, and that might not be the kindest move, but Clint's too tense for what it is. Reacting like he's being laid out for a beating. "Take it easy," Phil tells him, matter of fact instead of trying to soothe as he goes back to exploring Clint's body. 

Instead, Clint grabs the edge of the table almost by reflex when Phil brushes over his ass, then recoils like he's been burned, before adjusting his grip and closing his fingers again. Avoiding the loop for fastening restraints to, Phil guesses, and huffs, letting a note of amusement into it. There's no risk of restraint. Clint's not even wearing cuffs. 

Touching carefully, Phil tucks the fingers of one hand under Clint's ribs and uses them to lever him onto his side, pushing him over until he rolls onto his back.

They're both pretending that's all Phil's doing--that Clint is, at best, _allowing_ himself to be moved and certainly isn't cooperating or helpfully releasing his grip on the table edge before finding it again when he settles--so Phil doesn't offer any word of approval. Just gets back to his slow inspection. Noting scars and sensitive spots and places where Clint tenses in expectation. What makes his eyes flick to Phil and follow his movements, and what makes him look away or close them altogether. He doesn't make a sound until Phil gets to the crease where muscle connects to hipbone, and follows it to Clint's half-full cock.

It's not necessarily a sign of Clint liking this. In fact, Phil is pretty sure that he doesn't, so he doesn't say anything about how responsive Clint is, and pretends not to notice the way Clint's breathing picks up or how he's twitching a little under Phil's hands. Trying to keep still and not give himself away. 

He could force that, Phil notes, finding his footholds--his potential pressure points--almost automatically. He could jack Clint off and lay ruin to whatever defense it is he thinks he's staging, but overwhelming him like that doesn’t seem like the effective way to train him. Or tame him, maybe. Get him to lower his own guard, rather than forcibly tear through it.

Clint lasts until Phil eases his thighs further apart, and then his breath chokes out of him in a strange, halting whine. Possibly a choked-back moan. He's released the end of the table again, to fold both arms over his face in almost childish evasion, and that's it. That's Clint's limit, for now. Pushing any further would be tantamount to forcing Clint to fight back. 

It's a pretty common tactic, to bait rebellion and then punish it, and that's probably what Clint expects, so he stays frozen and tense even once Phil backs off. Touching gently and briefly before smoothing his hands up over Clint's belly and sides and back to his chest. Keeping the contact continuous until he can pull Clint's arms away from his face again and maneuver them to his sides.

Clint's flushed and breathing heavy, his mouth parted and his eyes dilated. His hair ruffled and slightly damp from sweat. He looks almost like he's aroused, except that Phil is sure that he's tending more towards stressed as hell.

"Look at me, Clint." 

That takes a second. Phil watches his chest rise and fall a few times, before Clint's gaze settles on him. The eye contact nervous now instead of insolent. If Phil was setting out to emulate recapture training, this would be where he'd start his work, but he isn't. And not only because Tony's views on that are abundantly clear. 

He keeps a hand on Clint while he calms down. Waiting until his breathing is slowed to almost normal and he's sure Clint's following, before he says, "You're done. I want you to stay there, but you can make yourself comfortable." 

Clint blinks and licks his lip. Swallows. Either confused or still half checked out, or a bit of both.

"Roll onto your side," Phil directs, then slips his jacket off to lay it over Clint. Offering some privacy back before he gives an approving pat--light, still avoiding gestures Clint might rebuff--and says, "You're fine. That's all I wanted from you." 

It takes some time for Clint to decide he believes that. That it's not Phil aiming to yank the rug out from under him. Phil stand close, keeping his hands off now and in his pockets, until Clint settles into tired relaxation, then tells him, "You did good. If you're okay, I'm getting you a drink and something to eat. Stay down until I get back."

It's only to the other side of the room and back, but he waits for Clint to murmur acknowledgement before he steps away. His muffled, "'Kay" isn't perfect, or even in the ballpark of proper, really, but a lot of the tension is gone from it. Softened by relief and surprise. By the reprieve from whatever Clint had been expecting.

It's enough for Phil to work with.

\-----

Tony, on the other hand, is impossible to work with. 

"So what's the problem?" is his response to Phil's report, "He looks fine. You're doing fine, Clint."

Phil huffs. Shoots Tony a look and tries to put some threat into it. Tony slouches a little and shoves his hands into his pockets. Looking sulky. "Well, it's not like I bought him for anything like--"

Clint makes a sound that isn't quite making it to hostile. It's landing somewhere in the vicinity of grouchy protest and Tony gives a Phil a quirked, amused look. Still pleased at the signs of continued insurrection and Phil very professionally doesn't sigh, but he does sit back to regard Tony with an openly critical expression.

"You bought him as self therapy," he says, and feels Clint shift as his attention fixes on Tony. It doesn't really matter. It won't hurt anything for Clint to realize that he's not the only one damaged here, and maybe Tony's precarious situation will inspire him to avoid rocking the boat. If he wants to keep the protection of the Stark name and household, anyway. 

"Like Pepper and the shoe place," Tony agrees, but sarcastically. Leaning back in his chair to fold his arms stubbornly over his chest. With the way it covers the arc reactor, Phil can never tell if the move is just petulance or a defensive gesture he's trying to pass under the radar. "And like Pepper, I was hoping to get something in red, but then decided, as always, on the more sensible, functional option."

"Right."

Clint shuffles a little. Uneasy and trying to get a bead on the situation. He's not wearing shoes, which is regular enough for personal slaves, but also because Phil doesn't want him equipped for escape, should he get any smart ideas. He might still be off his guard from earlier--Phil setting up his expectations, then intentionally failing to deliver on whatever Clint had imagined was coming--but Phil doesn't have any illusions about his break-and-run readiness and being barefoot might not _stop_ him, but it might slow him down enough that he'll end up tackled by security instead of arrested or shot in the street.

"There's no problem," Phil says, picking back up on Tony's earlier question, "You wanted me to find him something to do."

"Yeah, like _Steve_."

"Like Steve." Phil repeats, very evenly. Tony had himself identified Clint as someone likely to run, risk of re-recapture or not, and had _also_ identified just what sort of ending Clint might come to, were that to happen. 

"Well, yeah. I mean, not the car part. Obviously. But--"

"Maybe we could just give him the firearm," Phil offers, "and the walking papers and let him out the front door."

That's a slip, but thankfully Clint doesn't seem to have noticed it, busy taking in Tony's living room. The entertainment system, the virtual screens floating over the tablet abandoned on his coffee table, and the suit schematic slowly rotating in the air among them. Phil's pretty sure Clint can't decode it and doesn't know what he's looking at, but he still looks pretty blown away as he watches the lines of code scrolling up through nothing to disappear into thin air. Phil knows that feeling. Like looking at fractals or pictures of galaxies, knowing there's more to the puzzle than the visible, decipherable-to-the-layman tip of the iceberg.

Like Tony himself, except that with Tony what's visible and decipherable is the chaos and the antics and the drinking. As mesmerizing as his virtual blueprints, but more in a page six, gossip rag sort of way instead of the way that Tony deserved.

Tony gives him the affronted look he whips out when he thinks he's innocent of whatever Phil or Pepper are suspecting him of. "Don't take the high road with me, _Phillip_. You're the one who wants him to--" Tony lets it trail off to make meaningful expressions, rolling his eyes hard in Clint direction.

"To serve in a personal capacity," Phil finishes for him. 

"Huh. You make it sound so unsmutty."

"I can make it smutty," Clint pipes up, without turning to look at them. Just his voice drifting up from where he's still watching Tony's code scroll past. "If it's just you and _Phillip_ , then no problem."

"What if it's me, Phillip, and a cocktail party of drunken starlets?" Tony demands, directing it at Phil. Like he thinks he's not the one in control of his household and has no say in who might turn up to his dinner parties. In a sense, it's possible he doesn't. 

So thank god for Pepper Potts.

"You bought him," Phil says. "He has to do _something_. At least on paper. If you want, he can just serve the hors d'oeuvres."

"I'm good at balancing," Clint offers. Then adds, "Trays or whatever."

Something about that--maybe the wry note Clint puts into _whatever_ \-- makes Tony deflate. His mouth twitches into a small, brief smile, then falls back into a frown. "Yeah," he says. It's unclear which one of them he's addressing that to until he says, "I'm sure you're great at it."

"He needs a stated use. This is it. It makes sense. It works on paper. It's the only thing that makes sense on paper, unless you've decided to go into the carnival business." Tony opens his mouth. Phil interrupts with, "And if you ever need to prove it--"

"Why would I need to prove it? Nobody cares what I do with _stuff_. You think someone's going to come sniffing around my cars too? To make sure I'm really racing them? Or not racing them. Whichever way that argument's going right now." 

There's plenty of reasons someone might ask questions about _anything_ that Tony's doing, but it's not the time to argue about it, or the place. "You don't have to _do_ anything with him if you don't want to, but he has to be used to being around you." He's sure Tony picks up on the fact that by _used to being around you_ he means _used to being touched so he doesn't make a scene when it's a bad idea_. 

"Fine, fine," Tony huffs, and Phil's not sure if his hesitation is actual reluctance or just regular Tony lack of cooperation and reflexive heel digging. "What do you want me to do? Fuck him over the coffee table?"

There's the plasticky clatter of Clint fiddling with something--the TV remote, possibly--but he holds his peace. Or maybe he's biding his time. Or just collecting himself for the possibility that Tony's planning to follow through on that. It's hard to tell. Phil's learning to read him, but he's not quite there yet.

"Of course not."

"Good. Because I'm in the middle of something. I don't want to move my computer."

There's silence while Tony glares and Phil tells himself that Tony can do whatever he damn well wants including fuck himself over, much as that might break his heart and Pepper's heart and Happy's and Rhodey's as well.

And then Clint asks, "What is it?" with just enough of his head visible over the back of the couch that Phil can see him nod at the glowing blue shapes floating in front of him. The computer and projector set up. After a second he adds a dubious, "Sir," like that might make his questions not an overstep.

Silence again. This time Tony glances at Phil in disbelief or like he's looking for a cue, then looks back at Clint and at the way he's watching the model of Tony's latest gauntlet rotate on a shifting axis, giving them a slow, but complete view.

"Are you kidding me?" Tony says, "I'm Iron Man."

"You're not Iron Man," Clint scoffs, despite evidence _and_ training, but he turns back to the hovering model and watches it rotate before looking back at Tony and asking, "Iron Man? _You_?"

"It's like he's from the jungle." Tony sounds hurt and offended, "Or like he's never seen a newspaper. Or a television."

Clint sits up a little straighter. Says, "Oh, hell," in a mildly surprised way that Phil kind of likes. It makes Clint sound softer, somehow and less like he's made of jagged edges.

"Exactly," Tony says, and his fingers snap into lazy gun shapes that he mimes firing at Clint. Right then left, as he slides into a deeper slouch. "I'm _that_ Stark." It doesn't win Clint the way it does it the socialite crowd. Possibly, Clint's associations with that particular brand of smug assurance is something other than charming rich boy.

Or maybe his association is _exactly_ that, and he doesn't think it's a positive. 

"Bruce," Clint says, like it's a conclusion. Cool blue light falling over his face. It's shifting with the rotation of the model and making it hard to read his expression. "That’s why you have Bruce."

"And because I'm a softy when it comes to men swamped by student loans," Tony says. Then, with a shrug. "He mostly double checks my math and draws little dots over my ‘i’s. I do have ideas of my own, if that's what you're thinking."

Clint's head ducks, and it's a good thing that Phil's not expecting him to say anything polite or acknowledging, because whatever manners Clint _might_ have, or remember having, they're not making an appearance. What is making an appearance is a sidewise, appraising look. Like Clint's doing some kind of math, but Phil can't get a real bead on it.

Tony grins. "See?" he says, over Clint's head and at Phil, "This? This is the sort of thing you were supposed to find for him."

It's pretty clear that Tony's referring to Clint's fascination with the armor and means something along the lines of lab assistant. Maybe test driver. All of which could be great ideas if not for the horribly real possibility of Clint putting a flamethrower to efficient, violent use. 

Or high jacking a suit.

Or stealing a repulsor and rigging it to god knew what.

Or any number of things, really.

"Personal use, Tony," Phil repeats firmly. Tiredly. It's a feeling he has a lot, these days. "It only has to be on paper."

"And reasonably demonstrable," Tony adds, almost bitterly. Whatever weight he's putting on the whole thing, Phil suspects it has a lot more to do with him than it does with Clint, because nothing Phil's asking would really entail any more physical closeness than Tony _already_ engages in, with anyone he's halfway comfortable with.

"We'll work with him," Phil says, and gives Tony the best no-nonsense look he can dredge up with his leg starting to twinge. "And if you hate it, maybe next time you'll think ahead."

"Eh." Tony make a noncommittal, considering motion with his head, "I doubt it."

Phil doubts it, too. All he can really do is hope that Tony's next impulse will only be as potentially damaging as a murderous runaway. "One wrong move, Tony," he says, like Tony needs the reminder. Like Tony will _listen_ to a reminder.

"Yeah, yeah," Tony grouses. Neither of them mention _company seizure_ or even _dangerous and unstable_ , but Phil reads the thought on Tony's face anyway--in the bitter way a frown deepens the corners of his mouth for a second, before being banished. "Fine," he says, deflating. "He can be a sex--sorry. For _personal_ use." Tony sneers. Softens it. Then shrugs and with a little gesture explodes the gauntlet into all of its individual parts. "Then we can take him out, get trashed together, have Steve and Happy drag us home, and everything will go on just like always."

"That's the plan," Phil says, and really wishes it wasn't.


End file.
